


Style

by Rollinginthesheep



Category: One Direction (Band), Style - Taylor Swift (Song), Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Yas, basically following the lyrics of the song, but angsty feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5081314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rollinginthesheep/pseuds/Rollinginthesheep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>it could end in burning flames or paradise</i>
</p><p>In which Taylor doesn't quite know how to shake Harry out of her system.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Style

The problem with addiction is that by the time you’re aware that you are addicted, you are in too deep. You know you should stop but you can’t. I know I should tell Harry to go, but I don’t. I’m addicted to him. It’s a toxic cycle that constant repeats itself. It’s like that painful film that I watch time and time again, despite the fact that I know it will end badly. Is it because I hope that this time, _perhaps,_ it will end differently? Maybe. Is it because I’ve found myself not simply addicted to him, but to the feeling that comes with it? More likely. Because with every debilitating low, there is a moment of pure ecstasy in between the raging fights and painfully loud silences. There’s the look in his green eyes and the feeling of his warm hands upon the junctures of my skin that summarizes my downfall in its entirety.

It starts the same every time, like an old roll of photographs, fading and fragmenting around the edges from overplay. Harry arrives at an hour inconsiderate of any other visitor. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder as though any moment the illusion of secrecy could be ruined. He arrives in darkness, no headlights and leaves before the sun can rise.

There’s months between each visit and silence is all that connects them. The moment I feel myself recovering, becoming _clean,_ he’s back on my doorstep with his windswept hair and wearing that same old white shirt that has a tear at the bottom of it from when I attempted to pull it from his form in a fit of passion.

“Why are you here Harry?” It’s like a script, the beginning, middle and end already etched in stone. Each time I ask this, hoping that somehow I can divert us down a path we hadn’t taken before.

“I needed to see you.” His voice is as low and demanding as I remember it being the last time I saw him.

“Why? I heard you were out with Nadine tonight.” I cannot help but sound bitter as I speak the name of Harry’s newest flame. There have been several girls in between the time we were together and now, yet somehow we still end up standing opposite each other, Harry pulling off his coat and staring at me from across the darkened bedroom.

“What you heard is true.” He admits, head hung low as though his guilt can erase the painful concept of another girl’s hands on him and someone else getting a piece of his time, his affections. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He moves closer and I draw in a breath, trying not to inhale the toxically addictive scent of his aftershave.

“Harry…” I trail off, unsure of what I am trying to say. It’s always a conflict between pushing him away and pulling him closer, like a tug of war with my affections that I kept coming back to battle with.

“I’m sorry.” His tone is a little more urgent than it was a moment ago, stepping closer to the point his breath fanned my skin.

“For what?” Because I am unsure of which of the numerous things he’d done he was finally apologizing for.

“For…” He pauses, his large warm hands finding my cheeks. “..For everything we’ve been through…for being here…I just, I don’t know…I’m sorry.” His lashes shadow his cheekbones in the low lighting and I stare at them, unable to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry too.” I find myself saying before any thought is given, because I am sorry. For what I am apologizing for, isn’t entirely clear though. There was just too much history and to define exactly where things went wrong would take far too much emotion and time than I could give it.

Harry tasted like familiarity and oranges, his hands calloused by the time he’d taken to learn to play guitar. It was a physical reminder of the hours he’d taken to learn how to play my favourite James Taylor song. His hand trailed down my skin and neck, upon my breasts and the jutting part of my hipbones. He pulled away from me, only to drag one of his thumbs along my bottom lip.

“So beautiful…” He murmurs his voice husky before we fall into.

And the cycle begins once more…


End file.
